Is Not That Strange?
by PorcupineGirl
Summary: Three months after he fell, Sherlock is falling apart. A week later, John receives a letter that could change his life - if he lets it. Slash. "Your light burns so very brightly, Sherlock, but it has always been diffuse. Why burn brighter, when instead you've found a lens that can focus all of your scattered rays into an intense and concentrated beam?"


**A/N:** **This is what I managed to do while horribly stuck on Ch 5 of Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With Traps. :) Many thanks to dioscureantwins for a very helpful beta that led to some much-needed clarifications. Any remaining problems are my own. Comments are very much appreciated!**

His first two weeks at his new job had gone well. A private practice. Paid amazingly, though the surgeries he was doing were deadly dull, things he could do with his eyes closed. Mole removals, the occasional insertion or removal of chemo or insulin ports, some hernias. He was sure his limp would be back within a month, but he would be able to keep 221B and add to the nest egg he'd started with the income from… well, his last job. Occupation. Paying hobby? Hopefully after a year or two here he'd be able to take some time off, maybe travel. Maybe by then he'd be in a better place, mentally, to decide where to point his suddenly directionless life.

As he headed into the tube station, John scrolled through his texts, trying to remember if he'd told Greg to come by at 7 or at 8. Their pub nights had become a weekly tradition, a chance for them to take turns blaming themselves for what had happened; to rail against the idiots in the media, the other idiots keeping Greg suspended, the ex-wives and sisters who weren't making things any easier; and to generally drink until the grief had dulled. But today it was three months exactly, and John wasn't sure he could manage to keep himself together in public. So he was out picking up a couple of six-packs (probably best not to get any more than that, since they were likely to drink every drop he had in the flat… well, maybe just a small bottle of Scotch to be sure they'd be properly drunk) and the only real friend he currently had would be over with takeaway at… seven o'clock, there it is, to eat, drink, and be anything but merry.

. . .

At the same time that John Watson and Greg Lestrade were sitting down to their Chinese, in a very different neighborhood a tall, wiry man in a hooded sweatshirt was handing over several fifty pound notes to a short, twitchy teenager.

"You're certain this is exactly what I asked for?" The taller man held the vial up for inspection under the street light.

"Oi, I ain't no liar. I mixed it myself - you got the cash, I'll hook you up with whatever you need."

The teenager found himself fixed by the other's icy grey stare. It lasted long enough that he began to sweat - was this guy about to kill him to take his money back? Was he a cop? He was relieved when the man finally snapped, "I _seriously_ doubt that," then turned on his heel and stalked off.

. . .

John had known it would be a rougher night than usual when Lestrade had insisted on starting the proceedings with shots.

"Are you mad? I didn't buy this stuff to be chugged like you're a kid at uni."

"Yeah, well, I haven't had a sipping kind of day. C'mon, just the one. You can handle that, can't you, Watson?"

John had snorted and glared, but got down some small glasses and they had taken their god damned shots of his god damned Scotch before settling down with their Chinese and beers.

Now, two hours later, John's six-pack was down to three and he was having a more civilized glass of the liquor. They had relocated from the kitchen table to arm chairs in the sitting room and had already had one good cry that made John glad they weren't at the pub. He had a feeling there was at least one more in him, but he'd need at least a couple more drinks before he got there.

Greg had just finished a rant about how Donovan had the bloody _gall_ to speak to him kindly over the phone that day, even while she refused to look at the information he'd found that poked holes in the Richard Brook story. John had grunted and scowled in all the right places, and now that the rant had wound down both men were glaring at their drinks. John was trying to keep his mind from wandering back to some very tightly-cordoned-off areas, but as he approached the bottom of his glass he could feel the mental caution tape slipping and knew it was only a matter of time. He also knew that if he truly wanted to stay out of there, he wouldn't be getting drunk right now, so whatever. Let the drink do what it will do. He heard Greg clear his throat and looked up.

"Y'know," Greg started, only glancing at John before returning to inspecting his beer label, "it's been three months."

John swallowed the last of his drink. "Has it really? I had no idea."

"Right. What I mean is… I've tried to avoid asking you about this, but you've never brought it up. And it's been long enough now that I'm worried you're planning on just leaving it buried. Usually I'd even leave that alone, but I can see what it's doing to you. What I'm saying is, well - it's your own fault I'm about to pry here, mate."

"Well, you've got me curious, at least."

"Look, John. I know there was nothing actually… _going on_, between you two. But I also know - well, I suspected then but I bloody well _know_ after watching you mourn for three months - that you had feelings for him."

John's eyes dropped back down to his glass. _Fuck._ Not nearly enough alcohol consumed yet for this. So much for the caution tape.

"And that's all I know. So go on and fill in the rest." Greg gestured with his beer for John to take over. John didn't bother asking what he wanted to know. There was an order to this sort of thing. He could see the list of questions to be ticked off one by one, purging his mind of the secrets that haunt him and providing the evening's entertainment.

"Right. 'Scuse me, but I'm going to need another shot first."

That got a dark smile and almost-laugh out of Greg, who joined him without hesitation. When that was done, John fell heavily back into his armchair and blew out a long breath. There was absolutely no one else on earth he'd trust with this - hell, he barely trusted himself with it - but he'd already been entrusted with the darker moments of Greg's shattered marriage, ones that John knew had not been easy to share. He wasn't his best friend in the way that Sherlock had been, but they'd forged a bond over tears and alcohol that was based on full disclosure without judgment.

"Yeah. So." He sighed. "There was… something." He swallowed. Just talk, damn it. "I don't… I can't even tell you exactly what it was. Maybe it was just infatuation, maybe I was madly in love, I - I really don't even know. Because at the time… I just… I honestly didn't think about it all that much. I mean, I thought about it, but I didn't examine it, I didn't dwell on it. Fuck, Greg, it was _Sherlock_, right? So he knew! He was absolute pants at predicting, you know, emotional reactions, but whatever I was feeling, at the moment I was feeling it, _he knew_. Even if I didn't. So it was easy to just… leave the ball in his court, right? I didn't have to worry about working it out myself." He laughed, because it really did sound absurd, but it was just _so damn true_.

"I knew he'd do that, work out how I felt for me - knew he'd _done_ that, was doing it constantly - and if he had any interest in changing things up, he'd tell me. See, he'd told me the day we met - we had this awkward, crossed-wires sort of conversation, and the upshot was - he told me he wasn't interested in a relationship, just across the board, you know. Actually used the phrase 'married to his work,' if you can believe that. So I wasn't ever.… particularly worried about it, because if he didn't say anything it didn't even mean he wasn't interested in _me_. It wasn't a rejection, so to speak. It was just.… how he was. And I was _happy_, you know?" He had to swallow a lump in his throat, and a tear finally escaped one eye. "I was honestly very happy the way we were, so I don't - I can't really regret not saying anything. Obviously, y'know, I wonder sometimes if it would have stopped him, but - but he knew. And he did it anyhow. So obviously not."

Now he had to stop and let the tears flow a bit, because that was what was really buried at the bottom of the cordoned-off pit: Sherlock knew how he felt and had done it anyhow. Right in front of him. Had _made sure_ he watched. And what did that even mean? In Sherlock's strange mind, maybe it was supposed to be a final compliment. Maybe it was his way of sharing something private with John. Or maybe he was just a _fucking heartless lunatic who fed him absurd fucking lies just before he jumped_. John would never know.

He didn't even realize Greg had stood up til he felt the beer bottle being pressed into his hand. He took it and dried his face on his sleeve.

Greg held his bottle aloft. "Because fuck you, that's why." They had overheard a twentysomething hipster use the phrase their first time out at a pub after the fall, and during a night marked by more public crying than either of them liked to remember it had been the one thing that had made them laugh (probably rather too hard). It seemed to have so much bearing on their current lives that it had since become their toast of choice, particularly when they were already a couple drinks deep and things had gotten overly morose.

"That is, indeed, why." John said with as much dignity as his current level of drunkenness would allow.

They sat quietly for a minute, letting beer and facetiousness clear the melancholy from the air a bit.

"You ever been with a man, then?" John would have wondered if he were being (_incredibly_ inappropriately, given the circumstances) hit on, but Lestrade's tone and expression implied nothing but pure curiosity. Alcohol-driven curiosity, to be sure, but nothing more.

"Nah. Had a bit of a crush on a bloke or two, but nothing I ever remotely considered acting on. Passing fancies," He raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"Oh no, I'm about two beers still from _that_ conversation."

John laughed, "Well that's a yes if I ever heard one. Come on, out with it."

"Fuck. Not drunk enough to tell the truth, too drunk to keep my fucking mouth shut, am I? Fine, fine. Let's just say I had a _very_ good time at uni. Nothing ever one-on-one with a bloke, though. A few threesomes, more than that once or twice, but always a girl involved. But, y'know… _things_ were certainly… done. Just the sex, though. I've never had any sort of… romantic feelings or that nonsense towards a man."

"Is that your way of implying that I'm gayer than you?"

"Probably."

"Sod off." But he was laughing again. He felt like some stale air that had been stifling him was cleared.

A few beats passed before John spoke again.

"I suppose I must have been madly in love with him, because I would have done absolutely anything if only he'd've asked."

"That's pretty much what you did, mate."

"Yeah. It was. And I'd do it all again ten times. Bloody arrogant bastard."

. . .

Mycroft looked up with a start as his office door banged open. Sherlock strode to his desk, slammed down an unmarked vial, then dropped heavily into a chair, his face in his hands. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow at his younger brother.

Sherlock didn't look up. "I bought that tonight. You'll be pleased to know that I haven't touched the contents. In fact, I came directly here afterward. But I still might."

"I'm proud of you," Mycroft said, softly and rather more sincerely than Sherlock was prepared for. It made him take his face from his hands and instead cross his arms across his chest, slumping in the chair like a moody teenager. The truth was, he didn't want the drugs, not really. He knew that he would regret the long-term effects, as always. But Sherlock was convinced that he had no other choice, and Mycroft was the only person who might think of something to talk him out of it. His brother was the last person he wanted to confide in, but he knew at least that he could say a certain amount without revealing what was really on his mind.

"I'm falling apart, Mycroft. At this rate, in a few weeks I'll be lucky to be able to dress myself in the morning, let alone complete a covert mission requiring my mental faculties to be at the top of their game."

"I'm actually quite impressed that it took you this long to resort to the cocaine," Mycroft said, not unkindly, "given that you've gone without your substitute cold turkey."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock growled, stealing jealous glances at the vial that was now so much closer to his brother's hand than to his. Mycroft stood and walked slowly around his desk, stopping to lean on it just in front of his brother. Sherlock wished he would stop taking his bloody time; he was in no mood for dramatic effect right now. Well, not Mycroft's, at least.

"Your light burns so very brightly, Sherlock, but it has always been diffuse. It's so bright, really, that that hardly mattered. You can do things thanks purely to your luminosity that few others can, and for most of your life that was more than enough. This, Sherlock," he waved a hand toward the vial, distaste clear on his face, "and whatever else you've put into your body over the years - this is a small power surge. A brief burst of electricity that makes you burn brighter for a flash, but insignificant in the long run. And you well know that you pay for each surge, that you fall as far afterward as you flew. You also know how dimly your light can glow when things have gone too far. _This_ is not what you need. Not when you've found something so much more effective."

Sherlock had been sulking, feigning disinterest, but now he looked at his brother sharply. "Have I?"

"Of course. Why burn brighter, when instead you've found a lens that can focus all of your scattered rays into an intense and concentrated beam? We both know that's been much more efficacious, not to mention healthier and without the crippling side effects. Until now, of course, that you've chosen to give it up and had to go back to your former, diluted self."

Sherlock scoffed. "Without side effects? Surely you, of all people, would consider caring to be a dangerous side effect."

Mycroft sighed. "I did say 'crippling,' Sherlock. There are tradeoffs, of course, and yes, caring did get you into this particular situation. But surely you aren't going to try to convince me that, on the whole, John Watson hasn't been a more positive than negative influence? And when someone is as incredibly useful as he is, makes you of all people even better than you were, I suppose he has earned whatever affection and loyalty you choose to show him. Everything has a price, after all, and any photographer will tell you that a good lens is worth quite a bit."

Sherlock studied his brother for a moment. The conversation had worried him at first, but it was clear that Mycroft didn't understand as much as he'd feared. "You know full well I didn't _choose_ to do this without John. A dead John is of no use to anyone."

Mycroft gave him his most condescending smile. "Of course. But I also know that you are planning to do it _all_ without him, which is completely unnecessary. You are very close to the man hired to kill him. That's why the drugs are so tempting now, you feel like that small extra boost would get you there. But the truth is, you'll have him in a day or two either way. Once that man is disposed of, go and collect John before you begin the next phase of the mission. You're right in thinking that this would have taken half as long with him by your side, no reason to drag the rest out. I'll see to it that he has an airtight alibi to be out of the city for an indeterminate amount of time, so as not to raise anyone's suspicions."

Sherlock turned this over in his head. It was comforting to know that his brother could still be so very wrong about some things. Well, not wrong - in fact, everything he'd said so far was absolutely true. But only half of the truth, and Sherlock could see that Mycroft did not so much as suspect the other half. For the first time, he was pleased to have never learned to suppress his emotions as effectively as Mycroft, if only because it meant he could keep such a monumental secret from him with so little effort. Expediency had only been a small fraction of what had driven him to buy the cocaine that evening, and though it was true that he hadn't realized how inefficiently he was functioning before he met John, it was also true that he hadn't realized how lonely and fundamentally incomplete he was, either. And how much he never wanted to go back to that state, but here he was. In that moment, he made a decision. It was a risk, but he had finally realized that not trying was a bigger risk.

"You're right, of course," he said slowly, "It makes no sense to continue alone if I don't have to. Whether John will be _willing_ to join with me after all I've done is another matter, but I will at least give him the choice."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He clearly had recognized a second meaning layered into Sherlock's words, but couldn't work out what it was. "There's something you're not telling me, dear brother."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile condescendingly as he rose. "There's so _very_ much I don't tell you, Mycroft. But if I try to explain it all, there's a sniper out there who will never be caught. Thank you, though, for helping me to see what I must do."

There were, in fact, so very many things that he wasn't telling Mycroft. Such as the fact that he'd spent half his visit imagining having sex with John on his brother's desk. Or the fact that he was more nervous about the plan he'd just hatched than he could ever remember being about anything in his life. Or the fact that it had taken the worst mistake of his life, followed by a near complete breakdown, but at last he was no longer ashamed to be in love. Well, with any luck Mycroft would find out about that last bit eventually.

As Sherlock made his exit, he wished he had his old coat back. He had to settle for pulling up the hood on his sweatshirt and stalking through the offices like a chav, scowling at Mycroft's current raft of assistants as he passed by. Not his usual brand of dramatic exit, but it would have to suffice. A shame it felt so forced given how much his mood was lifting.

. . .

A week later, John was walking home from the tube when a scruffy young man in a dirty jacket ran straight into him.

"'Scuse me sir, sorry, sorry," the young man mumbled as he scurried away. John looked at him for a moment, startled, but recovered quickly and began checking his pockets. Wallet still in back pocket, phone still in left jacket pocket - wait. He looked back in the direction the man had gone, but he was obviously experienced at disappearing into a crowd after such a run-in. He hadn't taken anything from John at all, though. Instead, John pulled an envelope out of his right jacket pocket that definitely had not been there before. The front read simply, "For John," in a large, loopy script that looked vaguely familiar.

He was not entirely shocked by this, to be honest. He and Lestrade had both been poking around wherever they could, trying to dismantle the Richard Brook persona little by little. John had spoken to one or two people he knew to be part of Sherlock's "network," put the word out that he was looking for information to clear his friend's name. He quickened his pace home as he turned the envelope over and opened it, anxious to put whatever information was inside to use.

It was lucky that he was at the door to 221 when he finally got the letter unfolded, because he needed to lean on that door for support. The letter was written on thick, luxurious paper that he was sure wasn't owned by the young man who had deposited it in his pocket. The writing was in a deep green ink, and the handwriting was very definitely familiar. Too familiar. He flipped to the last page to find the signature. It was signed only with a large, ornate S. John felt dizzy.

He managed to get himself up the stairs and into the flat, then made himself take a few slow, deep breaths as he took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa.

A letter from Sherlock. Delivered posthumously, just the kind of dramatic flourish he'd enjoy. Why three months later? Would it help his progress clearing Sherlock's name? If so, wouldn't it have been more useful sooner? Or was it something else, a more personal goodbye? John knew better than to get his hopes up for that. He finally unfolded the paper, hands shaking ever so slightly. It would be better knowing than wondering.

_John,_

_The first part of this letter is an explanation, and the second part is a confession. Neither is intended as an excuse. I fully realise that you may find what I have done inexcusable, possibly unforgivable. I hope that is not the case, but if it is I will understand. You have forgiven me much, and I am not certain I have always deserved it; I am quite certain that I do not now. I will hold out hope, however, that you will find it in your very large and extraordinarily gifted heart to do that and more - to allow me back into your life._

John dropped the note on the sofa beside him and got up to make some tea to clear his head. He needed something calming before reading the rest. Yes, that was it, definitely not feeling cowardly about continuing at all. So that last bit was.… metaphorical, then? What could that mean? If the point of this letter was to beg forgiveness, he supposed that was why Sherlock had wanted it delivered weeks later: to give him time both to grieve and for his anger to fade just a bit. That was sort of unlike him, though - anticipating that John would be pissed off at him instead of blithely going about pissing him off without a clue what he was doing. John would have to read the whole letter to decide about its authenticity. He didn't want to think about it being a fake, but he knew he had to keep the possibility in mind. Mug in hand, he sat down to continue.

_First, the explanation. On the roof of St Bart's, Moriarty revealed to me that he had three snipers trained on three people - you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. Only the sight of me jumping or a command from him would call them off. Then, as I'm sure you know, he shot himself and removed that option._

John's nostrils flared and his breathing quickened as he suddenly realized that Sherlock was describing his suicide in the past tense. Surely he hadn't had time to write this and get it to anyone between Moriarty's death and his own? But the alternative...

_Luckily, I had anticipated that this was his endgame, or at least something along these lines. And so, with Molly Hooper's help (please don't be angry with her, John; the mistakes made have been entirely mine), I was able to jump from the building into a laundry truck instead of onto the ground, fake fatal injuries (though I did sustain some real ones), and suppress my pulse when you came to check. I paid a man to hit you with his bicycle as I fell, so that you would be distracted at the vital moment, and others were paid to keep you from getting too close to my body. I understand that he hit you rather harder than I intended and left you with a concussion - one more thing for which I must apologise._

_In short, I am alive and well, John. Perhaps not as well as I could be, but I will get to that later. Understand that lives were at stake, including yours. It was absolutely essential that my "death" be convincing, and that meant convincing you more than anyone else. If you believed it, so would the rest of the world, including the snipers._

John felt dizzy. His mouth was suddenly dry, his ears burning. Was he hyperventilating? Oh God he was, wasn't he. He forced himself to take a few long, slow breaths and managed to force oxygen back into his system quickly enough to keep from passing out. His mind was racing with a jumble of questions and curses, but he resolved to read the rest of the letter as quickly as he could and reserve all judgment til the end.

Still, though, it was a good thing Sherlock had mentioned the snipers first thing instead of just starting off the letter with "Just so you know, I'm not dead," because what John's first impulse was to call Greg and rant and rave and ask him what the hell he was supposed to do now. Clearly, that wasn't an option. How the hell would he hide this the next time they went out? _Read now, think later, Watson._

_So that, John, is the explanation. What I did and why it was completely necessary, despite the pain I am sure it has caused you. I regret the pain deeply, but I cannot regret doing what was needed to save your life._

_Beyond that, though, I can do nothing but confess my errors. I have spent the past three months hunting down the men hired to kill the three of you. Be assure they are no longer a threat. My goal now is to take down a few key players in Moriarty's network to ensure that it falls apart for good. And it was my intent to do all of this alone. Well, perhaps alone is too strong a word, as I have lowered myself to the point of accepting financial and other assistance from my brother. To be more to the point, I had intended to do all of this without you. I now believe this to be the gravest mistake I have made in my life._

_I thought that it would be safer for you. I thought that it would be safer for me, keeping you out in the world as witness to my death. I thought that it would be easier to move undetected if I were alone. I thought that I was capable of doing this alone._

_I was wrong._

_I understand now, John, that you have become an essential, an __integral__ part of my work. I can continue without you, but I would continue in my current state, functioning not half as well as I am capable of. You are a catalyst for the reactions in my mind. I would complete my mission far more quickly with you by my side. To be quite blunt, I do not want to go on without you for any longer than I must. I regret most deeply that for so long I thought that I should._

_And now that the explanation and confession are completed, a plea. As I have said, I know that I have hurt you both with my initial deception and my ill-conceived continued silence. I will understand if you cannot forgive that right now, or ever. But if you can, please consider my proposal. I am asking you to take up your rightful place, not as mere "assistant" or "colleague" or whatever other title has been applied to you in the past, but as a central element of the work that I do._

_I will come to 221B at 2AM tomorrow night. If you do not wish to join me, simply arrange to be elsewhere at that time and I will leave you alone, no questions asked. I will not contact you again until I have completed my mission, and I will never hold it against you. I hope, though, that I will find you there, and that we will continue on this journey united._

_Obviously, I must ask that you do not tell anyone about any of this. Mycroft will provide a cover story for your absence should you choose to accompany me. If you do not, please burn this letter lest it fall into the wrong hands._

_I hope to see you soon, John. I miss you._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_S_

John read the letter over twice more carefully. Sherlock clearly had anticipated how angry and hurt he would be, and had struck a masterful balance of flattery and groveling to counteract it. John didn't feel manipulated, though - in fact, he thought that it was the most sincere he'd ever known Sherlock to be. That wasn't something that came naturally for him, and John understood the effort it must have taken. And yes, it was definitely authentic. At first glance it might seem too sentimental, practically overflowing with emotion for something written by a man who wanted to be seen as a sociopath. But this was not just a letter to John - it was a letter written specifically for his eyes only. One that only he could fully appreciate, and could only have been written by Sherlock.

John could read the double layer of meaning flowing through the last few paragraphs, and it gave him pause. On the surface, it was an invitation to rejoin Sherlock as crimefighting partner and help take down a massive criminal organization. But there was another question lying below. So cleverly done, and John understood why. Sherlock was giving him two outs. If both answers were no, he could leave the flat empty at 2am. But if the surface answer was a yes and the deeper answer a no, he could simply ignore it. Pretend he hadn't read that into the letter at all, and they could run off to God knows where chasing after Moriarty's network and pick everything up where they'd left it.

Or.… Or he could say yes to everything. And his entire world could change forever. He sat, staring at the letter, contemplating that. He was glad that he had a day to decide, even though deep down he knew exactly what his answer would be. Had always been. It occurred to him that he was possibly as insane as the man he was in love with.

. . .

Sherlock slid his key into the door of 221B and opened the door as softly as he could, given the way his hand was shaking. He musn't wake Mrs Hudson, after all, or all his hard work would be ruined. Once inside, he stopped in front of the stairs. Suddenly he wasn't sure he wanted to know what waited on the other side of the door to B. He'd seen from the street that the sitting room light was on, which was a good sign, but he knew that John had a tendency to leave the light on approximately one out of every seven times he left the flat. Good odds, but one out of seven was enough to keep Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs for another thirty seconds. Finally, he started up ever so slowly, his heart racing.

He stopped in front of the door to the flat and tried to will himself to stop trembling, but it didn't work. The possibilities raced through his mind. He knew how John felt about him, had always been more acutely aware of John's feelings than anyone else in his life. He'd known when John had started feeling a physical attraction (immediately), when John had finally realized it and started actively ignoring it (months later), and when John had realized that his feelings were growing deeper and decided to just let go rather than take the first move himself (soon afterward). He'd always known that John would never do that, that it would be up to him, but had also assumed it was unnecessary. They were both perfectly happy, not pining over each other. No need for complications. But now suddenly what looked like a complication before seemed more like a simplification - putting things right, the way they should be, fixing what he hadn't realized was broken.

Three months ago John would have seen it that way, too. But now? Now Sherlock had abandoned him in the most painful way possible. He knew that John would have seen it as the ultimate betrayal, and he didn't know how far his letter could go in changing that.

Finally, he worked up the courage to turn the knob. He pushed the door open just a few inches, then stopped to push down his hood and remove the fake glasses he'd been using to round out his disguise. He knew it was stalling, but at the moment he was so utterly terrified that he really didn't care. _Finally_, he managed to open the door enough to look around it into the sitting room - and was greeted by the sight of John rising out of his armchair.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and sagged against it in relief.

"_John_."

"Yes."

"You're here." Normally it would be stating the obvious, but this hadn't been obvious at all. Not at all, not even to Sherlock.

"Yes. So are you. I think that's a bit more notable. _I_ live here, after all."

He took in every detail. Until this moment, John hadn't quite been entirely convinced he was really alive, really coming back. Now Sherlock could see as much relief in John's face as he knew was in his own, along with a torrent of other emotions - confusion, hurt, joy, and maybe, just maybe, love. As stoic as John was, Sherlock could read every microscopic movement, and there was too much there to piece it all out.

One side of John's mouth twitched upward. "Your hair's lighter. It doesn't suit you. Neither do those clothes. You're meant to look far more dramatic than this." There was definitely affection in his voice. This was going better than Sherlock had hoped.

"Your hair hasn't been cut since I - since I saw you last." The slightest twinge of a frown in his forehead when Sherlock almost mentioned the fall. Not good, but not awful. "It does suit you. I've always preferred your hair a bit longer."

They just stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Sherlock didn't think it was his place to speak - he'd already laid his cards on the table, it was up to John to tell him what his hand was worth. He could keep his mouth shut just this once.

"I think - I think you actually do understand what a bad idea that was," John finally said. Sherlock just nodded, eyes somewhere around John's shoes. "The other thing you need to understand is that if you pull any sort of stunt like that again, I won't forgive you next time. I'm not going to pretend that you can understand what kind of pain you put me through, and I'd appreciate it if you don't pretend either. Just acknowledge that you did, and it was unacceptable."

Sherlock finally looked back up at his face. Stern, angry, worried, completely meaning what he says, pleading, all written in the familiar features. "I know. It was. I don't regret saving your life, John, do not make me say that I do. But I regret that I underestimated the impact of the particular method I chose and caused you more pain than was necessary to save you. Should the need for similar measures arise again, I will consider my options and their emotional consequences more carefully."

John nodded. "Fair enough."

Silence settled over them again. Sherlock tried to let it be, but as it stretched out to one minute, to two, he began to worry that that was that - John had chosen to come with him as friend and assistant only and ignore anything else in the letter. John seemed to be studying him, trying to read him, his arms crossed in… consternation? Self-protection? Sherlock wasn't sure if letting John see the truth in his face would pull him in or push him away. He kept a neutral mask in place.

"Well," he finally began, "you obviously read my letter, and I think I've said everything I needed to there -"

"Not quite," John interrupted. Sherlock could see that whatever this was, it was what John had been trying to work out for himself the past two minutes. "I haven't quite fully forgiven you, but I will. I'm still a bit angry, but it'll fade. I'll come with you no matter what, I'll be happy to be by your side again and more than happy to help take down Moriarty's network. Don't worry about that. But if we're to be - more. If we -" Sherlock could see that he was frightened of saying it aloud, worried that he'd misread, maybe projected his own desires onto the words. Sherlock relaxed and let his face do what it wanted, and hoped that John could see the longing, the hope, and the fear running through him as their eyes locked.

"You've no idea how much I want this," John finally continued, "But I _have_ to _know_ first. I understand what you said about efficiency. Don't think I haven't noticed over the past year and a half that you do depend on me, even when you think you don't. But I have to know that this is about more than the work. That I'm more than just a tool that you don't want to lose access to. I think it's true, but I need you to tell me, clearly and in no uncertain terms, why you want this." He paused to chew his lip for a second, but Sherlock could tell he wasn't finished. He was pushing down fear and anger, but not very effectively; there was a growl running through his next words. "And I swear to God, Sherlock - think carefully about what you say next. It had better be nothing more or less than the complete truth. Because if it isn't, someday soon I _will_ realize that, and then you _will_ lose me."

Sherlock nodded slowly and took a step away from the door as he considered his words. A slight panic started to run through him as he realized that he could lose it all right here, and it wasn't as if he was particularly skilled at expressing these things..

He looked back into John's eyes. More than anything else, he saw _hope_.

"John, I'm sorry," he began, and immediately knew he'd said the wrong thing. John's expression didn't change, but the hope fell out of his eyes. He thought Sherlock meant I'm sorry _I can't give you what you're looking for_, I'm sorry _but the heartbreak is inevitable_, I'm sorry _I've led you on_. He thought this was the end instead of the beginning. The panic bloomed fully inside of Sherlock.

"No. No, don't look at me like that," He could hear that panic invading his voice, joined by frustration at his own lack of communication skills. He crossed the room in three steps as he spoke and laid his hands aside John's shoulders - not grabbing, just… holding. "Don't look at me like I've already tossed you aside. Let me finish, John."

John nodded once. The hope returned, but more cautious this time.

"I'm sorry, but - I've never been in love before. I didn't -" John's eyes had narrowed just a bit. Suspicion, he thinks that was a lie. Sherlock scoffed. "John, please, I wasn't in _love_ with the woman. Infatuated, yes, nothing more. Do we have to talk about her right now?"

John frowned fully. "Actually, I would very much rather we didn't."

"Then why did you bring her up?"

John's face was all annoyance now. Good, that was a perfectly normal state for him around Sherlock. "I wasn't the one -" He cut himself off with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh. Sherlock was pleased to see him accept the fact that yes, in fact, he had brought her up. "Oh, just go on."

Sherlock licked his lips and continued. "Infatuation, that's something I'm familiar with. I've never really enjoyed it, usually wind up doing something unutterably stupid because of it. I'd always assumed that falling in love would be even worse, so it took me an absurdly long time to recognize what I was feeling. When I did, it wasn't that I didn't want any romantic or sexual involvement. I did, though I couldn't understand why I did. But I assumed that those would be nothing but complications and distractions. And we were both very happy with our relationship as it was, so I said nothing about it. It wasn't until -"

"Stop," John said gently. "Stop explaining, Sherlock. You've got the rest of your life to explain. I don't need you to tell me every detail of how you deduced your feelings. What I need you to tell me right now is how you feel about me. Why you want to be with me."

Sherlock let his palms slide down until he was holding John's hands in his. His whole body felt the significance of the gesture, and he knew John did, too - more than the letter, more than anything either of them had said so far, that simple touch had just shifted their relationship unalterably. It felt wonderful. He felt a small smile spread across his lips.

"I love you. More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone, or anything. Certainly more than I ever thought I wanted to," He paused, but decided that he hadn't fully answered the second half of John's request. "I know I'm probably supposed to say I can't live without you, but of course I'm _capable_ of functioning without you. And I'm not referring to the work, but… as a person." He raised John's left hand and pressed small kisses into his knuckles as he continued, "As it turns out, though, I'm extraordinarily bad at it, it's unpleasant in the extreme, and I don't ever want to have to do it again."

He shifted his attention back to John's face as he moved their hands back down, and what he saw stunned him. He had never let himself believe that anyone, even John, would look at him like that. Like he was something beautiful and precious and so, so loved. _Yes, that, more_, his brain screamed. He would do absolutely anything to see that look every day.

"Wow," John finally said softly, "I honestly didn't think you were capable of romance. I'm impressed."

"That wasn't romance, John, that was the truth."

"Anything really romantic had better be. Besides, the - the hand-holding and the kissing and all, you didn't have to do all that to tell the truth. It was… quite wonderful."

John's honest and naked reaction had restored Sherlock's confidence completely. There was no question as to what would happen now. He could just settle in and enjoy the ride. He raised John's hand back up to his lips.

"What, this?" He turned the hand upward and ran his lips lightly over the crease where the palm met the wrist, his eyes never leaving John's. He slipped the tip of his tongue out and let it trace John's life line, then let his gaze turn predatory as he saw John react to the touch.

"That wasn't romance, John," he murmured into the hand, "That was impatience." He sunk his teeth gently into the sensitive flesh at the base of John's thumb and then slowly dragged them away. He reveled in the movement of John's pupils, the race of the pulse in his wrist. God, how had he denied himself this for so long?

John leaned forward, moved to push his hand into Sherlock's hair and pull him down, but Sherlock instead grabbed the hand and held it to his chest, blocking him.

"Your turn." His voice was low, commanding. He'd long ago deduced a few things about what John liked sexually, and he intended to put them to full use.

John looked at him defiantly. "You knew how I felt before I did."

Sherlock leaned in so that his lips were not quite touching John's ear. "I want to hear the words, John," he rumbled. When he pulled back, John's eyes were closed and one side of his mouth was pulled up in an appreciative smile.

John opened his eyes. His voice was low and urgent. "You know full well how completely fucking in love with you I am. And I've ignored it and repressed it and pushed it down for so long, I think it's going to rip me apart from the inside out if you don't give me somewhere to channel it all right now."

This time when he pulled Sherlock down into the kiss, Sherlock let him.

. . .

Some time later, Sherlock pulled his mouth away from John's and kissed his way to the sensitive skin below his ear. John's eyes slid to their bare bodies, tangled together on his bed. He'd always enjoyed the look of naked bodies wrapped in only sheets - he felt like it lent something almost artistic to a scene that could otherwise be simply lewd, without hiding it away like a thicker blanket would. He'd often wondered if (or perhaps, rather, _when_) Sherlock had deduced that particular preference of his. Now he reached over and pulled his sheet over them; Sherlock writhed against him and the sheet immediately became tangled around their legs. Yes, that was quite lovely.

Sherlock's mouth came back to his, and he could taste himself on that tongue as he had on so many women before. It mingled with a similar bitter taste from Sherlock - not what he was used to, but he liked it. He had always enjoyed going down on women, and it suddenly occurred to him that he would never do that again. He felt a slight twinge of sadness at the realization, but on the whole felt that it was a very small sacrifice he was more than happy to make for a chance at _this_. Sherlock smiled against his mouth and chuckled lightly as he moved back to his ear.

"You don't necessarily have to give up sex with women, you know."

John frowned, slightly alarmed. "Sherlock, I have no intention of cheating on you. I would never do that. I really don't mind -"

"John, it's not cheating if I allow it."

"Look, I don't want your _permission_ to cheat either. I have no intention of having sex with anyone else, male or female. Ever."

Sherlock huffed. The puff of air ran from John's ear right down his spine. "That's a shame. Because it's most _definitely_ not cheating if I watch," Sherlock nipped his earlobe, "and doubly not if I participate."

John couldn't suppress a slight moan as a dozen scenarios ran through his head in rapid succession. If it had been more than five minutes since his orgasm he'd be hard again. "Oh God. Just so you know, I am absolutely going to take you up on both of those offers. I suppose I can add sex to the list of things that definitely do not alarm Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Mycroft tends to forget that he wasn't always omniscient. There are six or seven years of my life that he knows almost nothing about. By the time he was able to start tracking me, I'd chosen celibacy for the good of my work. I'd come to the conclusion that sex and romance served as nothing but complications and distractions from what really mattered."

"But.. This is all right now?" John knew he sounded a little insecure, but he didn't really care. He needed to know. "You're certain?"

Sherlock kissed and bit his way down John's neck and stopped with his nose nuzzled into his collarbone. He sighed and spoke into John's chest.

"I should have told you that I wanted this long ago. I didn't understand what was happening. I thought I had all the data but I was overlooking something vital and drew the wrong conclusion. I knew what I wanted, but I didn't realize what I _needed_ because I had it, John, I had it with you and so I took it for granted. It was so close I couldn't see it. _This_," he gestured down their intertwined bodies, "I knew I wanted this, obviously.

"But I can live without the things I want, I can put them away where they won't distract me. I wanted to own you, to claim you as mine. To make promises to you and tell you things I thought I'd never say to another human. And even though I knew you wanted it too I thought I couldn't let myself do that - for so many reasons, John, you know that already. But I didn't understand what I _needed_ until it was too late and I'd given it up and that was destroying me. And then, when I was at my lowest point and finally accepted that it was all right to need it, to need you, and to at least try to get back to you… I realized something else. That if I didn't also try to get the things I wanted, someday somebody else will. Somebody else will want it from you and make you want it from them, and then I would lose you completely. Everything I want with you and everything I need from you, all because I'm a masochistic coward who keeps inventing reasons to deprive us both of what we really want. I'm sorry it took me so long to admit all that, John."

John was running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, kissing the top of his head gently during the monologue. When it was through, he continued quietly. He was a bit stunned - between the letter and this confession, Sherlock had basically admitted to more weakness and more genuine emotion than John had heard from him in the previous year and a half. John didn't know yet what had happened to Sherlock over the past three months, but it must have been absolute hell to have broken down so many of his walls. John knew they would likely be built back up eventually - maybe not as strong or as tall, maybe there would be a John-sized door he could occasionally slip through, but one way or another this was a rare moment and he knew he should treasure it.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock tightly and whispered into his hair, "Thank you so much for pulling your head out of your arse. Bloody git."

The laughter started deep in Sherlock's chest and then poured out into John's, and soon they were giggling and twisting together and kissing and laughing more more. John had never seen Sherlock look so… joyful. Simply joyful.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock pulled back and locked his pale eyes onto John's. "My trousers. Right-hand front pocket." He nodded toward the pile of their clothes on the floor behind John. John gave him a questioning look but twisted his front half off the bed and dug around the pile. He finally retrieved the somewhat raggedy jeans Sherlock had been wearing and reached into the front pocket. When his fingers touched the contents, he froze. _Oh._

Sherlock sat up and snaked his arms around John's waist, pressing his face into John's shoulder. "I was feeling a bit.. optimistic today. Happened past a shop while I was returning from an interrogation."

John supposed he had just assumed that, well, this was Sherlock. He thought this would be done without rings or ceremonies or flowery vows. They might sign some paperwork once Sherlock could legally do so, but he hadn't expected anything more, and that was fine. It was Sherlock. He knew perfectly well who he was in love with and all that that would imply.

John pulled the rings out and stared at them, cradled in the palm of his hand. Incredibly simple, no frills, dark metal - titanium, from the look of them. Practical yet symbolic. Beautiful. Suddenly, his body gave him two conflicting messages - on the one hand, his heart swelled and a smile spread slowly across his lips. But at the same time, a cold thrill ran through him. The weight of the rings in his hand made it utterly clear that this was _real_. He'd spent so many months fantasizing, or keeping himself from fantasizing, about what he and Sherlock could do, what they could be together. Knowing that he'd happily follow Sherlock into anything, happily hand over the rest of his life if he knew he could have the same in return. But that had all been fantasy and this… this was his life. He would spend the rest of his life married to Sherlock. Married to a man, dealing with the very real prejudices and problems that came with that. He would never marry a woman, never get her pregnant. Very likely never have children at all. Everyone he knew or ever would know would look at them from now on and see those rings, know what they meant.

He glanced over at Sherlock, waiting so patiently for his response, squirming his torso against John's back and rubbing his cheek against John's shoulder, and he suddenly couldn't wait to have all of that. Every bit of it. He closed his hand over the rings and nuzzled Sherlock's ear. "A bit sentimental of you, love."

Sherlock huffed into John's shoulder. "Territorial," he growled. John couldn't believe he'd gone so long without that voice rumbling against his body. He would never get over that feeling.

"You know there are a lot of conversations we still need to have, right? And I'm going to need real honesty from you. You're going to have to start letting me in the way you have today." Sherlock looked up, searched John's face for God knows what, then gave a short nod.

That was good enough for John. He kissed and pushed and prodded until they were both sitting up straight, leaning against the headboard and each other. He held the rings out. "Which is which?"

"Yours. Mine," Sherlock picked up his own ring, but John grabbed it back.

"That's not how it's done." He switched the two rings so that he was holding Sherlock's and Sherlock, his. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't object.

To John's surprise, Sherlock even went first. He glanced down long enough to begin sliding the ring onto John's finger then looked up into his eyes. "I'm going to make so many mistakes and I'm going to hurt you so many times. The one thing I can promise is that I will learn each time and I will _never_ make the same mistake twice. And from today on I will give you more of me than I'm comfortable with and will be as honest with you in every way as I can without putting any lives in danger." The last bit almost made John giggle, but the seriousness in Sherlock's eyes kept him simply beaming.

He pushed the other ring onto a long, pale finger. "I am going to continually overestimate you and underestimate you and expect things from you that I know you can't give. It will frustrate us both, and I will absolutely make the same mistakes over and over. But I will never willingly leave your side, and I will support you in whatever ways you need - or want - until the day I die."

When he was finished, Sherlock practically pounced on him. _You may kiss the groom_ became _you may roll around on the bed snogging the groom to within an inch of his life_ in short order. John finally pushed them back up to sitting and melted into Sherlock's chest.

"Well, this is definitely just about the antithesis of how I'd imagined my wedding day," he said with a laugh and a squeeze around Sherlock's waist.

"I would imagine so. You did always fancy yourself completely straight."

"Maybe not, I don't know, _completely_. But yes, basically. Enough that I was certainly going to marry a woman."

He could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes. "I'd placed you as a 1.5 on the Kinsey scale within a day of meeting you."

"Really. So where are you on that scale?"

"Approximately a four."

"Anyhow, that's not even what I was talking about. I was referring more to, you know, the nudity," he looked up into Sherlock's eyes and they laughed, "And the vows that are struck invalid if lives are in danger. Maybe, y'know, the fact that even aside from the you being dead bit, two days ago we weren't in any romantic relationship of any sort and now we're wearing rings. This is insane. You realize that, don't you? Absolutely insane. And a bit stupid, probably."

"I never do anything _stupid_, John."

"Yes you do. You do stupid things all the time. Lucky for both of us, they're usually also brilliant."

. . .

John's thumbs flew over the keypad as they sat in Mycroft's car. He wondered briefly if he could update his blog via phone; he was much faster typing this way.

To: Greg Lestrade

_Mycroft has offered me some work for the next few months. Leaving today, sorry I can't say a proper goodbye, you know how he is. Cloak and daggers. I'll be available via text and email, and I'll let you know when I'm in town next._

The reply came quickly:

From: Greg Lestrade

_What? What the fuck, John, why are you doing that bastard any favours?_

To: Greg Lestrade

_I think he's doing me a favour, actually. It's to do with Moriarty, he's offered me a chance to help take down the rest of his network. I need this, Greg. Honour Sherlock's memory._

From: Greg Lestrade

_What about your job? You just started!_

To: Greg Lestrade

_You know I hate that place. I called them this morning, told them I wouldn't be coming back. I'll be well-compensated for what I'm doing. He's even paying Mrs Hudson a year's rent in advance._

From: Greg Lestrade

_Well, good luck. Stay safe. And you better get back to London when you can, grab a pint._

To: Greg Lestrade

_I will. Hopefully this will all be finished soon._

From: Greg Lestrade

_I'll admit, I'm a little jealous. I'm going out of my mind with boredom til this review is finished. Let me know if you need any help._

To: Greg Lestrade

_You didn't hear this from me, but it's been heavily implied that you'll be back to work within a week. They want all investigations into Moriarty closed ASAP so they don't get in the way of whatever we'll be doing._

From: Greg Lestrade

_That, mate, is the best news I've heard in weeks. Take care of yourself, John._

To: Greg Lestrade

_Check up on Mrs Hudson for me._

Sherlock sighed impatiently and tightened his grip on John's thigh. "John, why on earth are you texting Lestrade so much? Why does he need to know what you're doing?"

"I told you already we've become good friends. I can't just disappear on him. He -" John was about to say _he needs me_ but that sounded a bit melodramatic, and Sherlock was unlikely to accept it. "You didn't just hurt me, okay? He feels responsible for your death, and I've been a shoulder for him to lean on. It's good he'll have his job back, but he doesn't really have anyone else to talk to about this."

"Do you plan to continue this friendship when we return?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Of course! Assuming he forgives me for lying to him in order to run off with you. You know, I never took you for the jealous type. Can't you tell just from looking at me that I'm not interested in him, or anyone else for that matter, romantically?"

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "Of course I can, John. I apologize, I'm just… unaccustomed to being in a romantic relationship. I will adjust my behavior as necessary to ensure the success of this relationship, I assure you."

"I actually… Sherlock, have you - I don't even actually know. _Have_ you ever been in a committed relationship?"

"Once, when I was twenty-one. It lasted six months and ended badly. That's how I began to develop my theory of… complications and distractions. I'll tell you about Victor another day, though; we're nearly to Mycroft's house."

John pursed his lips and looked out the window at the manor they were now approaching. "This should be fun."

Sherlock didn't bother to knock or ring at the door, he simply walked in carrying one of John's bags. Anthea, who was waiting in the foyer on her Blackberry, startled and looked up at him. She recovered quickly. "Mr. Holmes is on an urgent phone call, he says to wait in the drawing room and he'll be down in a moment. Doctor Watson, you can leave your bags here and they'll be taken up to your room."

"The bags go to my room," Sherlock said offhandedly as he set his down, hardly even glancing at her.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Doctor Watson's room is completely prepared."

This earned her a quick glare from Sherlock. "I said _my room, _Miriam_._"

She glanced at John, who gave her an apologetic smile and nodded as he set his other bag down. "His room will be fine, thanks."

Eyebrows still raised, she went back to her phone. "I'll let the staff know."

After Sherlock had headed off into the drawing room, John paused and looked back at her. "Miriam? Is _that_ your real name?"

Anthea/Miriam/Who Knows merely gave him a bland smile before returning to her texts. He chuckled and set off in the direction Sherlock had gone.

He found tea waiting for them. He took a cup and settled into an armchair while Sherlock paced the room. John sipped his tea quietly for a moment.

"She doesn't actually live here, does she? Anthea, or Miriam, or whatever her name is?"

Sherlock stopped and frowned at him. "No, don't be ridiculous John. She's not a maid. Mycroft's personal assistants work in eight hour shifts around the clock."

"But when she said 'the staff,' she _was_ referring to a.. maid or someone? Who lives here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in distaste. "Mycroft has a number of servants living here. He does like to make a show of the family wealth. Between that and his love of waistcoats, I think he fancies himself a lord in an Edwardian period drama."

"Nonsense, Sherlock, this isn't Gosford Park, I haven't got a valet and they don't live downstairs. Just because they're better paid than your landlady-cum-housekeeper doesn't mean they're for show. How else would any cleaning or cooking get done? You certainly haven't lifted a finger since you arrived." Mycroft was leaning against the door to the drawing room. "Hello, John, glad you could come."

John nodded. "Mycroft." He still wasn't feeling particularly warmly toward the man. He stood up and went to stand next to Sherlock, their arms pressed together.

"This project will go much more smoothly with your involvement, as I'm sure Sherlock has explained. Speaking of which, I believe, dear brother, that you were planning to arrive at Baker Street at two o'clock this morning. It's now seven in the evening, may I ask what took so long?" Mycroft's smile was strained now.

John glanced at Sherlock. This was _his_ brother, what he wanted to tell was up to him.

Sherlock looked at his brother blandly. "Well, out of those seventeen hours I'd say we spent about a third of it preparing and traveling, a third sleeping, and a third shagging."

John and Mycroft's eyes suddenly locked onto each other, their expressions hilariously similar - eyes wide, jaws clenched, brow knit. Simultaneously, their eyes shifted back to Sherlock as they both said "That is not funny." Sherlock simply smirked at them both and rested his hand on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock, I understand how pleased you are to have your… _buddy_ back by your side, but I do hope you will remember why we brought him here. There is work to be done, and I would hope that you are still taking that seriously," he shifted away from the doorjamb and took a few steps toward them, but before he could speak again his eyes flickered between the two men's left hands. He sighed. "Little brother, I told you that I am to be the _first_ to be informed of any new plans. I don't know why you would be going undercover as a married couple, but -"

"We're not. Going undercover."

John could see Mycroft's temper rising, though his voice remained even. "Then I believe you should explain those rings to me." John licked his lips and looked up at Sherlock, giving him an almost imperceptible shrug. _Come on then, rip off the bandage._ In response, Sherlock's hand travelled from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, thumb swirling through his hair. John resisted the urge to lean into the contact like an attention-starved housecat, but Sherlock looked pleased with himself nonetheless.

Sherlock's eyes remained focused on John, soft and affectionate in a way John hadn't expected to see except when they were alone, as he spoke. "I assumed you knew what such rings normally indicate, Mycroft. I suppose I've overestimated your understanding of Western traditions."

"I do not appreciate your attempts at obfuscation," Mycroft said, sounding more dangerous by the minute. "Doctor Watson, perhaps _you_ should explain."

John opened his mouth dumbly, but Sherlock shot a glare at his brother. "Really, I'm sure John appreciates the use of his formal title but seeing as he is now your brother-in-law I think a first-name basis would be a bit friendlier."

Against his better judgment, John found himself blurting out, "Well, not exactly. In law, I mean. The… _law_ bit." He gave Mycroft his best "you know how it is, mate" shrug, enjoying the look on the man's face just a bit too much. "Dead men can't sign marriage licenses, you know. But I do hope you'll welcome me to the family." He smiled at his new brother just as sincerely as he possibly could.

Mycroft took a deep breath and seemed to regain his composure, though the smile he graced John with was even tighter than before, if that were possible. "_Doctor_ Watson, could I speak with you for a moment? My study is just to the left."

John saw Sherlock open his mouth to argue, but stopped him with a hand on his chest. "It's _fine_, Sherlock. I think I can handle him, don't you?"

"Fine," Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. He nuzzled his nose into John's and gave him a brief, gentle kiss before dropping his hand from his neck. "My - _our_ bedroom is the first on the left at the top of the stairs."

John followed Mycroft into the study, shutting the door behind him. He turned to find Mycroft sitting primly at his desk. There was no other chair. Luckily, John was quite used to not setting the terms of his meetings with Mycroft. It didn't intimidate him this time any more than it had the first.

"I expect ridiculous antics from my brother, Doctor Watson, but I honestly thought better of you. I don't know how he talked you into such an absurd charade, but if the sole purpose is to get under my skin, please rest assured that your mission has been accomplished."

John put his hands out in a reconciliatory gesture not out of intimidation, but an honest desire to start their new relationship on good terms.

"It's not antics, Mycroft, and it's not a charade. This is real. We've had these feelings for each other for a long time, it just took this to make us actually talk about them and act on them. I know this seems sudden and rushed and ridiculous. And yeah, it sort of is ridiculous, honestly. But it's Sherlock, that's just how life with him is. You know that, you're his brother."

Mycroft watched him coolly, and when he replied it was with a smile that did not reach anywhere near his eyes. "Doctor Watson, I understand that learning the truth about this situation must have come as a shock to you. And people do make rash decisions when shocked. My brother was in a… _vulnerable_ state when he contacted you. I am sure you would hate to wake up one morning a few months from now and realize that mistakes were made."

John sighed, crossing his arms. "_Your brother_ is a grown man, Mycroft. No, he wasn't doing well, but he was still capable of making rational decisions. As am I."

"You've met my assistant before. I believe she was going by the name Anthea then."

"Yes.." John's confusion at the change of topic was clear on his face as he glanced back toward the door as though he expected her to come through it.

"You remember. She certainly does. You should know that all of my employees are under strict orders not to socialize with the people I meet with, not even small talk. Not even while they're off-duty. You see, far too many of the people I associate with are quite capable of getting information out of even the most loyal assistant if they can get just one toe in the door of social interaction. So when you met Miriam, nee Anthea, you made quite an impression on her, but she was unable to express that at the time."

"That's… nice? Or possibly creepy?"

"My point is, she has always been quite interested in you. Quite attracted to you, in fact. And since I do trust that you, Doctor Watson, are not attempting to infiltrate my employees to gather information, I really wouldn't mind if she were to… _socialize_ with you. One word from me and all embargoes against interacting with you are dropped. She could even tell you her real name. She -"

"_Stop."_ Seething, John strode forward and put his palms on the desk. He used the fact that he was standing and Mycroft sitting to his full advantage, making it very clear that he was a man capable of killing if needed. His voice came out in a low, dangerous rumble that Mycroft hadn't heard before. "I don't know what you think you're doing. Offering to, what, to _prostitute_ your employees out -"

"I would never, Doctor Watson. I would simply free her from her contractual -"

"And for what, to try and - and _tempt me away_ from Sherlock? You actually think that I would commit myself to someone and then turn around and leave him because an attractive woman offers me sex? Or do you just want to lure me into cheating on him? Maybe you think I'm too weak to give up sleeping with women. Whatever it is, you're _disgusting_, Mycroft. Either way you're actually _trying_ to get me to break your own brother's heart -" he stopped suddenly and looked closely at Mycroft. Every time he'd talked to this man privately, the conversation had been about protecting Sherlock. He realized now that this conversation was no different. The realization didn't make him any less angry. "You honestly believe that I'm going to break his heart eventually. That it's inevitable that I'll leave him, and you want to rip the bandage off quickly now."

He jerked back off the desk and covered his eyes with one hand. "Jesus Christ. Okay." He sighed, trying to remind himself how completely insane this situation must look from the outside. He couldn't expect anyone else to understand the absurd logic that had governed his and Sherlock's relationship from the day they met.

"I can't… I can't _prove_ to you that I love him - that I'm _in love with_ him. The only evidence I can offer you is the fact that I've killed for him, I've nearly been killed for him, and I've stood by him through everything - _everything_ that's happened in the past year and a half. If I ever were going to leave him, I would have done it _long_ ago."

"I am not speaking to you solely out of concern for my brother," Mycroft said softly, though his expression stayed as cold as ever. "When I said he was vulnerable, I did not necessarily mean to being taken advantage of by you. His mind was not functioning as efficiently as he'd grown accustomed to, it's not entirely surprising that he mistook that for something else -"

"Shut up _now_," John growled. "Again, I'm a grown man. I know Sherlock has lied to me before - _obviously_ - and I'm not as skilled in detecting it as the two of you. And God, do I ever know that he's usually completely shit with emotions. But if I'm wrong here, and I'm setting myself up for a fall, that's no one's problem but my own. And quite frankly, he's worth the risk. I wish you could see that."

Mycroft's cool exterior finally cracked, as much as John had ever seen it. Rage flashed ever so briefly across his features as he stood, settling into an expression just every so faintly more angry than before. "I don't think you fully understand that risk, Doctor Watson! Breaking _your_ heart, driving you away because he promised love that he couldn't deliver - would destroy Sherlock far more than your leaving him of your own accord ever would. He would not forgive himself. Even worse, he would be rendered entirely useless, which is no way for a man like him to live."

John regarded him coolly. "Why did you want me here? Sherlock told me all about your conversation, about how you _encouraged_ him to come and get me. Why?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't so that the two of you could play house -"

"I know that, but why _did_ you?"

Mycroft sat back down and stared at John for a long moment before answering. "You have had an undeniably positive effect on his work. With you by his side he is more focused, more creative, comes to the crucial insights even more quickly than he had before. The loss of that, while on the surface simply putting him back to his baseline, was devastating to him. This job will be finished more quickly with you here."

"And?"

"There is no _and_, Doctor. That was my sole concern."

John pursed his lips and stared down the most powerful man he'd ever met.

Finally, Mycroft sighed. "He is… a better person when he is with you. Alone, he is likely to turn to drugs not only to speed up his mind but simply because he _can_. You tend to act as a social lubricant and external conscience, which makes it much easier for him to collect vital information and frankly more pleasant for everyone to be around, including me. He is… happier. He is happier with you than I've ever seen him." By the end, Mycroft looked as chastened as Mycroft was capable of looking. "And right now, he needs someone who is loyal to him. You, John, are loyal to him to the point of foolishness."

"I am. And I won't leave him. I trust him to give me whatever love he's capable of. Which, believe me Mycroft, is more than you give him credit for. But whatever he has, it always has been and always will be enough for me."

Mycroft sighed. "I apologize for the intrusion. Please tell my brother that I was asking after your sex life - if he thinks I'm interested, maybe he won't mention it again."

John nodded and turned back toward the door. "Apology accepted. I'll see you in the morning."

"And, John," He looked back at Mycroft from the doorway, "I'll admit this was a shock and I reacted to that shock badly, but on the whole I really am… quite pleased."

John gave him a brief smile and shut the door behind himself. He glanced around and found the nearest staircase, then started up, into the rest of his life.


End file.
